Waking Dream
by me malum
Summary: England wanders in dreams. England wonders in dreams. Inception inspired.


**Disclaimer**- I don't own anything you recognise from any fandom that has been referenced in this fic (of which there are seven, including Hetalia and Inception, which inspired the idea of this fic originally). I figure the other five are quite obvious too; I wasn't trying to be subtle about them :-D

**Warnings**- mild language, English spelling.

Enjoi.

* * *

_Night one_:

He stands in front of his commander and begs to lead the forlorn hope into Talavera. He begs because although he is a captain in His Majesty's forces, his family ran out of riches two generations ago and his new born daughter has few prospects ahead of her as things stand now. The glory (and prize money) that would come from capturing Talavera for King and Country would be a good start to changing that for her.

Something doesn't ring true with the sentence, but he ignores it to listen to the general explain exactly why the frontal assaults are called _forlorn_ hopes-

-then he knows this is a dream because he is suddenly in the thick of battle with no idea how he got there. His musket is smoking, and there is no time to reload so he drops it, pulls out one of the pistols at his waist and shoots the man about to gut him in the head. The French bastard goes down, and now there _is _time so he draws his sword before the next attacker is upon him.

This is a dream; he has no real worry about being killed on the battlefield. But pain _can_ be felt and he has no inclination to suffer so tonight.

Another jump- the sensation is less jarring this time because there are no grand revelations waiting for him when his consciousness catches up. He is in front of the gate, about to kill the bastard who guards the mechanism to open it-

-when one of the other bastards, one he'd left for dead between _then_ and _now_ that he doesn't remember slicing open (obviously not deeply enough) returns the favour on his back.

He spins around as he falls, getting mud in his wound and a final look at the man he thinks might just have killed him.

Not that it matters. It's just another French bastard, indistinguishable from the rest of them.

And this is but a dream.

He takes a deep breath, probably his last. Thinks of his daughter and silently prays she forgives him one day-

-England wakes up, jarred by the realisation that he's never had a daughter to ask forgiveness from.

_Night two_:

His captain is a full-time drunken sot, but so is the rest of the pirate crew and somewhere between the ninth glass of rum and His Majesty's Royal Navy invading the bar, he decides there is something to be said for fighting while drunk off his arse and seeing two of every sword against him.

The drink is both a numbing agent and an impellor to greater foolishness as he dodges one, blocks the other and stumbles as it becomes apparent that the sword he chose to block was the imaginary one.

His balance is shot (he blames rum number five, but honestly can't remember when his sense of gravity decided to desert him) and his falling to the floor in a fit of swears and giggles probably saves his life as one of the navy sailors (bloody cheaters) pulls out a pistol and just misses his head with the shot.

It hits a crewmate, and then he's back on his feet, enraged because Johnny was the only man on the ship better at cheating at cards than him-

-his sword abruptly changes course so instead of sticking it through the navy bastard, he catches his captain in his arms as the man collapses. There's no blood and no navy sailors left standing so he assumes it's just the alcohol taking its toll- again. With a sigh, he heaves the man onto his shoulders and makes his long way back to the ship-

-there is fire and yelling and the weight on his back is no longer his captain but the tip of the rigging that's just collapsed and caught his arm, dragged him down and settled somewhere along his spine.

It doesn't really matter; it _is_ a dream, and he's lost the feeling in his legs since he's been aware enough of his surroundings to wonder why he _should_ be feeling them. His awareness is dimming with every second and he laughs at the absurdity of falling asleep within a dream-

-England sighs softly as he wakes up, surprisingly gently for the dream he had, before panic takes over. He falls out of bed and struggles to his feet, relieved beyond measure when they don't collapse under him like he feared (expected) they would.

_Interlude_:

He asked France who he'd dreamed as after the second night. France blanched and merely whispered, _her_, before drowning his sorrow in another glass of wine.

England knew about _her_ from a night of drinking when for once, they'd been closer to friends than enemies. He imagined the pleasure of being able to dream someone else's life, someone he once loved, and experience everything again from their point of view.

He then remembered that she'd been burnt at the stake for witchcraft and heresy.

He left France to his wine, and didn't ask after his dreams again.

(Even if he had, there would be no dreams to speak of. France handed his machine back in the very next day, and had slept in blissful ignorance since.)

_Night 3:_

He is young, sitting at a table with a hare and mouse and a man surely madder than himself even as he dreamt this up. His dress is in tatters, and isn't that strange because it was the height of indecency in polite society to cross-dress.

He blinks, and his dress is still in tatters, the hare is crazier than ever and the man worse so. With a jolt, he realises he is shorter this time around despite intrinsically knowing he is years older.

He knows for sure this is a dream, so when they talk about being the wrong or right Alice he laughs and asks them where they possibly got the idea that he was a _girl_.

The hare and the Hatter exchange glances and the human wonders in an undertone if he was wrong- because Alice was mad, to be sure, but not to _this_ extent.

He rearranges his illogical skirts, and laughs. It's only a dream, and their opinions matter for nothing.

He blinks and he stops laughing abruptly when the jabberwocky lunges for him. Suddenly there is a vorpal blade in his right hand and a shield in his left and he uses that to deflect the claws that snatch at his armour and try to kill him.

At least he's not wearing a dress in tatters anymore, he thinks wickedly, even though he's still unsure why _he_ was wearing a dress in this day and age.

His moment of inattention costs him, and the lightning attack catches him off-guard. It strikes him directly and every inch of his long golden hair is standing on end and the blade clatters on the ground as it falls from nerveless fingers-

-and the last thing he sees is the horrified look on the White Queen's face, the victorious smirk curving the lips of her Red counterpart, and he hears the enraged shout of the Mad Hatter and even as the darkness closes in he manages to gasp, don't worry!

It's just a dream, and this doesn't even hurt that much-

-England jolts as he wakes up; his heart feels heavy and hurt as he recalls the sadness in the Hatter's expression after being told he was merely a dream.

_Night Four:_

"Doctor Sullivan, report to the Doctor's laboratory. I repeat, Doctor Sullivan to report to the Doctor's laboratory."

He huffs and sets down his tea, wondering what was so important as to interrupt his afternoon break. As a surgeon-lieutenant and one of UNIT's medical officers, he tries to enjoy any downtime he can get. Nonetheless, he is an officer and a gentleman and it would be unseemly not to comply with the Brigadier's order.

He's halfway there when a second announcement for himself is made, cancelling the first. He frowns, but gives no other sign of displeasure and returns to the off-duty facilities and the cooling beverage he left behind.

He knows his frown is not from displeasure at the wasted time (he is always willing to do anything in the service of his country) but from the feeling that the most cataclysmic moment of his life- something that would change it, and him, irrevocably- has somehow been averted. He shrugs; it is only a feeling-

-and knows because he is dreaming, and because only a second later the Doctor is welcoming him aboard the TARDIS, that his feeling was right.

Not to matter; his cataclysmic moment happened regardless, and he is happy running around with the mad scientist and the old thing. There is nothing they can't conquer together, and if all the running sometimes makes him trip over his own feet, well at least he wasn't as clumsy as when he used to trap his nose in closing doors (Sarah-Jane still doesn't believe him, but an officer never lies to a lady, no matter how incredulous the tale).

So he likes a bit of the action; he's comfortable with himself and therefore knows what he's like. He's never deceived himself that he might like the action _too_ much, sometimes-

-similarly, he thinks moments later when he boards the train back to London, he won't deceive himself into thinking he has a place with the Doctor anymore. It's not a decision that hurts (and he knows it isn't because he's dreaming that it doesn't hurt); instead it feels like closure. An episode of his life that has left an indelible mark on his soul that nonetheless is now finished-

-England blinks a few times on waking; his vision is blurry. He realises he is crying, and instead of being confused by this pain he knows it's because he can't understand why a man would leave behind (or be left behind by) the best two friends he would ever know. It isn't something he has the strength to do, being on the other side of the balance- the one who lives on with only as many memories of a person as he can make to get himself through the millennia to come without them.

_Interlude_:

"Show me something happy," he'd said before falling asleep on the fourth night.

He'd woken up heartbroken and thinking about everyone he'd lost since he could remember them. He wants to scream at his people, ask them _why are they doing this to him?_ and what's the use in dreaming if he can't make it a happy ending? He wonders if he can't change the outcomes, when it hits him.

He's only dreaming, after all.

_Night Five:_

He blinked and was no longer alone. There was a girl on the floor and a young wizard conducting a monologue that England couldn't interrupt if he wanted to. The talking stopped, and shrewd eyes took in the country's expression.

"No fear," the teenager noted. "But no loyalty either. Do you not dispute that I am the greatest wizard of this age?"

England wonders whether this teenager is insane. But he also wonders how long it's been since he looked in the mirror and saw the very same expression staring back at him. "I've seen nothing to disprove your claim," he says carefully.

Far from a neutral response, he gathers, as the young man looks delighted. He twirls his wand around in his fingers, and speaks with obvious glee.

"Does Dumbledore know how far his champion has fallen?"

England responds more strongly to this. "I am nobody's champion," he snarls. "I fight for nobody but myself!"

But then, that's not strictly true, is it? England has fought for his kings, his queens and his allies as well as his own personal grievances. To say he is not a weapon is a lie; he is the ace brought into play when all other hope is lost (according to his rulers. England would be happier to start fighting when the battle begins, and not leave until every enemy on the field was dead or incapable of carrying on).

He knows he is dreaming. He knows he is far more lucid in his dream this time. He wonders why that is.

The teenager gestures carelessly at the girl lying on the floor. "Do you not fight for her?" He asked. "Only, she's almost gone."

It is then, when England takes a closer look, that he realises the teenager he's been talking to is not wholly corporeal. The little girl, who he dismissed as of no importance, is white as a sheet and barely breathing. She has a diary clutched in deathly still hands, and using _other_ senses England can see the link between the book and the boy.

"You're draining her life force," he says slowly. "You're killing her."

"The first casualty in the reopening stages of Voldemort's war," the spirit answers glibly. "With Slytherin's monster by my side and Dumbledore's champion fallen, there is nothing that can stop me!"

"Nothing?" England wonders. Then he kneels down next to the little girl, feels her shallow pulse fluttering behind her ear, and snaps her neck with a casual twist of his hand.

"What?" It takes in what England has done with wide eyes. "_What?_" The spirit yells, but it has little time remaining. With the girl dead, it has no life force to draw on, and not enough already to keep itself alive.

It wastes precious moments of its last seconds irate, but then the eyes turn cool and assessing. "It was a _pleasure_ to meet you, Harry Potter." It even looks darkly amused at what England has done.

The eyes are the last thing to fade. England is left in a dark chamber with a corpse, a diary, and two words floating around his head. _Harry Potter_.

He jolts awake feeling like he's destroyed something irreparable; smashed hundreds of mirrors into tiny fragments.

Like he's taken someone's innocence and shattered it with one (wise if unkind) decision.

It's not a something he particularly cares to feel (again).

_Night Six:_

"Tell me, master hobbit, what is your weapon of choice?"

He knows he is worn out from and fuming at what has happened this night, but can't think of any particular crimes this dwarf has committed against him. He smiles (and it is not a pretty smile) and says honestly, "A broadsword for my enemies, and a dagger for my rivals."

He has a faded memory of fighting France to a stalemate, his knives against France's _epée_, and then he has no memory of fighting at all and wonders by the Green Lady what prompted him to say that.

A tall man with a taller hat stirs to the side, frowning heavily. The dwarf snorts, pushes past his shoulder and says "He seems more of a poet than a burglar."

Then there is talk of quests and dragons, and he is in turns fascinated by the idea of this mythical creature and horrified at what the company wants to do with it.

He faints, and then he is dreaming (within a dream..? How else to explain this madness?) of wargs and orcs, swords flashing and a golden ring, gleaming when no light shines upon it-

-then the ring is on his finger and he wonders if he is dreaming at all, because it has come to pass, he knows, even as he doesn't understand why he knows. He has no memory of talking with trolls or playing riddles against a pitiable wretch, but it is the only explanation for how he is walking invisible through tunnels and past cell blocks as he searches for those who he has lost.

This makes _no sense_, he suddenly realises. And as for the ring, he can _hear_ it, feel it in his head, a constant barrage of _use me and ignore me, I am nothing of note_.

He takes it off and the whispers fade, though not completely. Then someone behind him shouts an alarm; it distracts him entirely from the gold and he wonders belatedly if he wasn't creeping around invisible for a reason.

He holds his sword with the surety of a man (..? but he isn't a man, is he?) who has fought various battles over centuries and more. The tallness of his opponent reminds him of fighting nations as a child, for the proportions are similar.

Height or no, his opponent loses and is left to die on the floor while he puts his ring back on before anyone else stumbles over him. He turns to check his opponent is truly fallen (his back tingles in remembrance of Talavera)-

(_-where?-_)

-he turns-

-the dwarf king is raging at him. Because he got them out, ensured their escape, but it is too late; Durin's day was a week past and they have no hope of finding the hidden door now.

It doesn't matter to the dwarf how he had to sneak around a city on high alert- one constantly watching for the assassin who killed a random guard and disappeared into the shadows. It doesn't matter that he _tried_, oh how he tried to be what the company and Gandalf needed him to be, but a burglar he wasn't and-

England blinks, bemused, and sits up. He looks around his bedroom to his dresser, where over half of the drawers are filled with passing fancies- trinkets and _mathoms_-

-what was a mathom?

-trinkets and pointless things, their only value in the people he took them from. Three of them contained pieces from the Frog alone, things stolen on the battlefield and pick pocketed during meetings.

He'd never thought to call himself a burglar, but the title _did_ fit. Yet titles counted for nothing in dreams, and again England felt that something had been destroyed by a change he couldn't see.

Destiny shouldn't be so easily thwarted, he thinks, but then realises that since he is dreaming, it is of no importance.

_Interlude:_

England tells himself he is only dreaming.

He tells himself this so much, he wonders even now when he is going to wake up.

_Night Seven:_

He is a boy, and Britannia is telling him to be strong-

He is a child, and Denmark is telling him to surrender-

He is young, and France is telling him to _grow up and accept the way of things_-

He is older, and he tells France to kneel-

He is wiser, and he tells Spain to leave while he can-

He is wearier, and he tells Oliver Cromwell that he cannot win this fight-

He is drunk, and he tells his captain to buy another rum-

He is grown, and he tells younger nations to come with him, to be strong-

He is heartbroken, and he tells America nothing-

He is bloodstained, but he tells the men Talavera is the only way-

He is crazy, and he tells them he's not the girl they've been searching for-

He is furious, and he tells Germany that there will be no mercy-

He is scared, and he tells Gandalf he has no desire for an adventure-

He is neutral, and he tells Germany why that will change-

He is decided, and he tells the Doctor to kill the Daleks while he can-

He is famous, and he tells his friends _he doesn't want any of it_-

-he is dreaming, and he tells himself to wake up-

-he is _awake_, and he tells himself to _wake up_-

_Epilogue_:

"Here." He shoves the silver case back into the official's hands, uncaring for the safety of the equipment inside. "Find some other way to test it; I'm done."

"What's the matter?" The government man carefully sets the case down and turns his attention fully to the nation. "You were so eager to try this with us when we first brought it up."

"I've learnt my lesson." England's eyes are haunted and circled by purple smudges. He hasn't slept properly in a week.

"Oh? And here we thought you were somehow different. You're the only nation to use it for so long."

Seven days is not a long stretch of time by anyone's measure, but England has dreamed of lifetimes every night and is still confused about which lifetimes actually belonged to _him_. His dreams haunt his waking hours, and he can't help but feel cheated and wonder that it should be the other way around.

There's a shrewd look in the man's eyes as he asks, "Do you have anything to report to us after using it for a week?"

"Nothing you'd find helpful," England replies, somewhat waspishly. "If you want to know how a dreaming device would affect humans, test it on _them_."

The official sighs with fake sadness. "Is dreaming not as exciting as you'd hoped for, England?"

Eyes widen before going perfectly blank. _Excitement_ is not the issue here, and England thinks the official knows that.

England wonders which of his dreams were truth, or at least rooted in it; ghostly memories from people long fallen. He wonders which of them were plucked from some hapless soul's imagination, and wonders how these people cope with such vivid thoughts biting at them constantly.

He wonders how much stronger than him his people must be, to deal with dreaming on a nightly basis.

(He is terrified of this truth.)

The nation leaves without answering.

_Prologue_:

Nations are unable to dream. Their minds are fragile- made up of the drives and impulses of their people- and to add their dreams to this would eventually overload the nation's subconscious.

There is only a slim chance of them ever waking up from that state, rather than falling to a coma and eventual death.

If they do survive, it is by the grace of insanity.

_Coda:_

Some nations think dreaming is worth the risk to try.

Most only have to try once, and they know they are wrong.


End file.
